Every Christmas, all I ever wanted was Playskool instruments. It

Host: The living room glowed with the soft, amber light of old Christmas bulbs. The tree in the corner blinked unevenly, its tinsel catching and scattering the glow like a galaxy of memories. Outside, the world was quiet under a thin blanket of snow, and the faint echo of distant laughter drifted through the glass.

A half-open box of ornaments sat on the floor beside scattered wrapping paper, half-crumpled ribbons, and the faint smell of cinnamon and nostalgia.

Jack sat on the couch, a cup of cocoa in his hands, its steam rising like slow smoke. Across from him, Jeeny crouched near the fireplace, poking at the logs until the flames danced higher.

Jeeny: “Andy Biersack once said, ‘Every Christmas, all I ever wanted was Playskool instruments. It was my entire life. And then by the time I was 6 or 7 years old, it became, “Now I’m going to force my entire family to watch me perform all these rock songs.”’”

Jack: (chuckling) “That sounds about right for a future rock star. Every rebellion starts with a toy drum set and a living room audience.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but there’s something sweet about it — this idea that the urge to perform, to express, to be seen, starts before you even know what fame is.”

Jack: “Before you learn what rejection feels like.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s pure. Innocent ambition — that wild belief that your voice can fill the world.”

Host: The fire crackled. The light flickered across their faces — warm, imperfect, human. A vinyl record spun faintly on the player in the corner, a slow Christmas ballad humming through the room like a half-remembered dream.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to line up my action figures and do mock speeches. Whole campaigns. My poor parents sat through hours of me declaring imaginary wars.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “So the performer and the philosopher were already sharing the same stage.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I was just desperate to be heard.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we all? That’s what makes Andy’s quote so beautiful. It’s not about toys. It’s about belonging. That moment when a kid realizes — if I sing loud enough, they’ll listen.”

Jack: “And if they listen, maybe I matter.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, soft flakes drifting like dust from another time. The room grew quieter — the kind of quiet that carries echoes.

Jeeny: “There’s something almost sacred about childhood performance. The first time you stand in front of your family with no fear. You haven’t learned cynicism yet. You believe applause is love.”

Jack: “And then you grow up and realize the world doesn’t clap for everyone.”

Jeeny: “But the ones who keep performing anyway — they’re the ones who turn innocence into art.”

Host: Jack leaned back, watching the fire. The flames twisted upward like memories reaching for air.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what music really is — nostalgia you can hear. Andy’s talking about that spark. The moment sound becomes identity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t chasing fame yet — he was chasing connection. Music was how he said, ‘Look at me, I’m here, I’m alive.’”

Jack: “And isn’t that what all creation is? Just an elegant way of saying, Don’t forget me?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every artist begins as a child asking the world to remember them.”

Host: The wind howled faintly against the windows. The tree lights flickered once, then steadied.

Jeeny: “There’s something powerful about the idea of forcing your family to watch you perform. It’s not arrogance — it’s longing. You’re asking them to witness your becoming.”

Jack: “And maybe, deep down, to approve of it.”

Jeeny: “Or at least to see it. To see you.”

Host: The flames cast moving shadows across the walls — shapes that almost looked like people clapping, like an audience made of memory.

Jack: “You ever think about how those moments shape us? That first performance. That first spark of attention. It’s the origin of every artist — that craving to turn being seen into being known.”

Jeeny: “And being known into being understood.”

Jack: “Which is impossible.”

Jeeny: “Which is why we keep creating.”

Host: The record ended with a soft scratch, the needle looping faintly. Jeeny didn’t move to stop it. She looked instead toward the window, where the snow kept falling in slow, perfect disarray.

Jeeny: “What I love about Andy’s story is that he wasn’t just playing with toys. He was testing his destiny. Each Christmas performance was a rehearsal for the rest of his life.”

Jack: “Yeah. And what’s fascinating is — it all starts with play. With make-believe. But then, if you love it enough, it becomes your truth.”

Jeeny: “Play is the seed of purpose. Every artist was once a child pretending seriously.”

Jack: “And every adult artist is a child who refused to stop pretending.”

Host: The fire hissed softly, one log collapsing inward. The smell of pine and smoke filled the room — honest, grounding, nostalgic.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Christmas really represents for artists — not the presents, but the beginning of presence. The first time you realized joy could be shared. That creation could make others feel something.”

Jack: “Even if it’s just your mother clapping politely while you bang on a plastic drum.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Jack smiled. The snow outside had buried the streets in white silence, but inside, warmth lingered — the warmth of memory, of creative beginnings, of childhood courage that refuses to die.

Jeeny: “You think we ever lose that? The ability to perform without fear?”

Jack: “I think we bury it under expectation. But sometimes, when the lights are soft and the world feels safe, it comes back.”

Jeeny: “Like tonight.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like tonight.”

Host: She closed her sketchbook, the fire reflecting in her eyes. The room seemed to hold its breath.

And in that tender quiet, Andy Biersack’s words glowed like a melody — equal parts innocence and ambition:

That art begins not in fame,
but in the living room,
beneath Christmas lights and family laughter.

That the first stage
is a space filled with love,
and the first audience
isn’t critics — it’s kin.

That the need to perform
is the need to belong,
to say, This is who I am — see me, hear me, love me anyway.

And that every song sung after that moment
is just a grown-up echo
of a child with a toy guitar
and a dream too loud for silence.

Host: The fire dimmed to embers.
The snow fell steady and slow.
And as Jack and Jeeny sat quietly in the glow of the tree,
the world outside seemed to listen —
not to the noise of ambition,
but to the small, eternal rhythm
of someone’s first song.